Suspicion
by russianwinter013
Summary: Now that Cybertron is restored, many have returned, whether Autobot or Decepticon. There is no declared leader and riots and violence take place. Hundreds of Autobot law enforcements are founded. Jazz is one of the Enforcers and is none too happy when he is paired with the strange Praxian detective Prowl. Will chaos continue to rule a revived world?
1. Chapter 1

He had been in every office except one.

There were rumors about its owner, and one doubting his sanity was commonly spoken throughout the station.

_"Jazz."_ A gravelly voice sounded over his comm. "_You are needed in the meeting room_."

"Already on mah way," he replied.

"_Quit stalling and get your chassis in here. Smokescreen is just about ready to blow a massive fuse._"

"Alright, don't bite mah head off." Jazz disabled the link, arriving at the meeting room. The door flew open before he could ask permission to enter. A tall, dark blue mech with narrowed, blazing white optics glared down at him.

"About time you showed." The mech spoke with a thick accent, his voice deep and cold.

"Calm yourself, Smokescreen. Ah showed, didn't Ah?"

"Barely." Smokescreen moved aside to let him in, where he was met with glares.

"Why did we recruit him?" A femme, one by the name of Redstar, growled. Her optics blazed as she glared at him.

"Cool ya jets, 'Star. Why did ya call meh here?"

Redstar's mouthplates curved into a scowl. "I didn't. _He_ did." She motioned to an extremely tall mech at the head of the table, whose faceplate was enveloped in shadow as he watched them.

"Who's he?"

Smokescreen nudged him, a low growl rumbling deep in his chassis. "Show some respect. You are addressing the head of the entire police faction."

Realization hit Jazz like a magnetic pulse and he bowed. "The great Whiplash. Ah've heard of ya."

"I have heard much about you, Jazz of Polyhex." Whiplash's voice was extremely deep, a rumbling thunder not all that different from Optimus'. "You may rise."

"To what do Ah owe the honor?" Jazz rose, his visor flashing.

"I have come to speak with all of you," Whiplash rumbled, rising from his seat. "You may be seated."

They were all quick to obey his command, as if he would revoke it at any given moment.

" What do you know of our consulting detective force?"

"Nothing, sir," Redstar said. "We don't possess such a division."

"Your assumptions are inaccurate." Whiplash projected an image onto the wall before him. It was of a Cybertronian corpse, a mech with neon paint splattered over his graying frame.

"What is recognizable of this cadaver?"

"That is being the Enervator clan murder," a young 'bot with scorching golden optics and spiked wings said. "It occurred a day or so after the revitalization of Primus. The slayer was a Decepticon being by the name of Nightwing."

Whiplash nodded. "That is correct, Jetfire. Who was on this case?"

"No one but a few rookie glitch-heads looking for a promotion," Redwing responded.

"As usual, your deduction is incorrect," Whiplash rumbled, making the femme glance away in embarrassment. "There was one high-ranked Autobot who was working on this. His designation is Prowl."

"I've heard of him. There are rumors that he is being who devours Autobots for breakfast," Jetstorm, Jetfire's twin, said, voice shaking with fright and interest. Redstar gave him a scathing look and he lowered his gaze.

"I can assure you that these rumors are inaccurate as well. They are rumors for Prowl's unusual methods, as other call them."

"If ya don't mind mah asking," Jazz said, "What does this have ta do wit' any o' us?" He ignored Smokescreen's rumbling growl, keeping his gaze on Whiplash.

"Prowl is in need of a new partner. His former left under unannounced circumstances."

"Is that why Windcharger was so annoyed?" Jetstorm blurted out, his blue gaze wide. "He was looking ready to being blow the roof off."

"That is of no concern at the moment," Whiplash said. He moved his gaze slowly around the room, his dark optics piercing their very sparks. "You will decide who takes Windcharger's place. Inform me when you have completed it."

"Yes, sir," they said in unison, watching him leave.

"I do not mean the being of rude," Jetstorm said, his speech abandoning its formality and slipping into its strange accent, "But who will is doing the task of assisting the 'bot eater?"

"He is not the eater of 'bots," Jetfire said, his golden optics narrowing. "He is being the term misunderstood?"

"Well, you guys can continue on," Redstar stated, rising from her seat. "I am not going anywhere _near_ that psycho."

"Hope for no promotion," Smokescreen hissed.

"I don't care about promotions," Redstar snapped. "I care about having a complete psychopath working on our cases and acting like a know-it-all glitch-head."

"Ah've heard of 'im," Jazz drawled. "He's got a loopy reputation."

"And I wonder why," Redstar snarled. "Solving cases won't be enough for him- one day he'll cross the line and become a killer himself." She turned and left, her irritation leaving a burning haze in the room.

"I will be glad when someone snaps for her temper," Smokescreen stated, his optics blazing white.

"Shut your processor," Jazz said. "If everyone's too much of a malfunction-"

"-we are not malfunctions!" Jetfire snarled, wings flaring to dangerous points.

"Ah don't care if ya are or not," Jazz continued, his visor flashing as Jetstorm began to object. "If no one will take the job, Ah will."

He was met with silence and shocked stares.

"You truly are as crazy as they say," Smokescreen said.

"I disagree with that," Jazz stated, crossing his servos.

"Why is that?"

"With everything everyone's sayin' about this Prowl, he seems crazier than meh-and that's sayin' somethin'."


	2. Chapter 2

Jazz onlined to an incessant beeping in his auditory receptor. Growling, he switched it on.

"Yes?"

"_You are needed_." The voice was unrecognizable, filled with static.

He stood, rolling his neck as cables popped back into place. "Who is this?"

"_You must be dumber than you look_."

Jazz froze, his visor darkening a shade. "Who is this?"

"_Figure it out_." The line disconnected.

He stood in his darkened room, glaring at a spot on the wall through his visor. When he found out who did this, they'd better hope they make it out alive. Everyone knew of his immense dislike for anyone who disturbed his recharge.

Entering an open command into the door, he entered the hallway. No one else was on this floor, except for a few elderly 'bots that were veterans and some Neutrals that worked in the document areas. They did not seem to care who lived on the same floor as long as they didn't cause trouble, which was fine for him. Right now, he was focused on murdering the Twins.

Turning on his comm, he dialed Jetfire's line.

"_What_?" The flier's voice was filled with static from sleep.

"Which one of ya glitch-heads decided ta call meh?"

"_What are you being talking about_?"

"Don't play stupid with meh, Jetfire."

"_Who being the right mind would do the call of you at this time_?"

"Obviously ya. Open the door."

"_What_?"

Jazz growled, and at the noise, the door he was standing in front of shot open. Jetfire stood there, orange-gold optics glowing in the dim light. He was rather annoyed; the height of his wings justified this.

"You are being the irritation," the Autobot hissed.

"Don' care," Jazz drawled. "Where's ya brother?"

"How is being the business of you?"

"Ah need ta talk ta both of ya." Jazz's visor flashed white.

"We can be doing the talking later—"

"Brother, quit the being of malfunction." Jetstorm appeared noiselessly, his wings low and pedes dragging as if they weighed him down. He had clearly just onlined; his visor was a shade of blue so dark it was nearly black.

He faced Jazz, who was waiting impatiently. "What is it that you desire the being talking about?"

"Ask ya brother."

"No, brother, do not ask me," Jetfire said, his wings rising as his brother began to object. "I am not being in the mood."

Jetstorm faced Jazz. His wings twitched; a cool wind blew as a cause of sleepy irritation. "You have made my brother the insulted and angry. Explain. _Quickly_."

Jazz realized that he had crossed a line, no matter how small. The twins were fiercely protective of each other, and causing irritation in either of them could and sometimes did rise to the point of dangerous things happening. Judging by the cold indifference and the fiery rage rolling off of the two, he realized it was not them who had woken him.

How irritating that his manner of judgment should be tested so.

"Brother, he is not going to be doing the explaining," Jetstorm said. He did not move as Jetfire disappeared. He kept his gaze on the visored Polyhexian.

"Our talk is not the being of over," he hissed, closing the door with a gust of wind.

Jazz revved quietly. His work here would be impaired, now that he had insulted and aggravated two of the most powerful Autobot warriors here. He could just laugh it off, but their pranks could become frighteningly vicious. Now he'd have to watch his back.

Great.


	3. Chapter 3

**First Prowl Appearance! Yes!**

**A/N: I Do Not Own Transformers**

**I really have nothing else to say, so...enjoy! :D**

* * *

Whiplash sat in his office. He was noiseless, as he was reorganizing the information in the criminal files section of his processor. The Chief of Enforcer's tasks took up most of his time, and movement of the physical status was restricted whether it was inside or outside of the now-darkened office.

_Accessing criminal sector. Objective: Sort, store, delete._

_File 00014601. Designation: Surablack Case, occurrence: three millennia from previous orn._

_Error. Computing process restricted by mass document clutter. Save or delete?_

"Sir?"

He opened his optics. Xerxea, one of the former warriors with unpredictable, sporadic seizures, stood in the doorway. Her tall, slender frame was enveloped in shadow, but her purple optics glowed.

"Yes, Xerxea?"

She shifted from one pede to the other. "There is someone here to see you."

He did not recall a scheduled meeting. "Who might this be?"

Xerxea's arm jerked, but she forced it down, her gaze narrowing. "Prowl."

He leaned back in his chair, processor scrambling to unearth a reason on why the master detective, tactician, and spy would want to speak with him. "Very well. Send him in, and then go acquire some recharge. Your condition will not stabilize with your working for hours on end."

Xerxea nodded and left. A few moments later, a tall black and gold Praxian with spiked, lethal looking doorwings appeared.

"It would be wise to schedule a meeting. You should not demand admission into my office while at the same time frightening my assistant in the process."

"That _would_ be wise." He crossed his hands behind his back, a vacant look clouding his gaze. "However, should I have scheduled, you would be fifteen point five second late, having just returned with a meeting from the Enforcers of Iacon." Prowl faced him. "Unpunctuality is not a trait I favor."

Whiplash tilted his helm, an amused smile crossing his faceplate. "You never fail to astound me, do you?"

The Praxian stared at him, his cold optics analyzing with a scrutiny that made the normally fearless officer uneasy. "I astound many, but not myself. It is a manner of perspective in which I see things. The said astonished have primitive minds that simply cannot see straight to the fact."

Whiplash nodded, though he was unsure of whether or not the Autobot had meant to insult him.

"I understand that you have informed the staff that I require a new partner?" Prowl questioned.

"Yes."

"Toleration of your announcement was not a given requirement?"

"I do not command my officers to favor my every order."

"I did not say did or have to." Once again, the Praxian was staring at him with a rather chilling amount of impassiveness, a stare that made the Chief think the Autobot was reading his very soul. After a moment of unsettling silence, Whiplash leaned back in his chair.

"What do you want, Prowl?"

"What I want, I already have." He turned away, looking out of the window.

"I do not favor conundrums."

The detective began to speak, but he stopped, seeming to freeze in place.

"Prowl." Whiplash knew that the Praxian would immobilize at times, but for what reason, he did not know. There was no way to predict it.

The Praxian did not respond, though Whiplash noticed his grip tighten on the windowsill. He continued to stare out of the window, his gaze narrowed.

"Prowl." Whiplash repeated the designation, authority laced throughout his voice.

Whiplash stood and approached Prowl ,who continued to stare.

"Prowl, what—?"

The Praxian whipped around, making the Chief move back in surprise.

"Give this information precisely: take only the bare essentials, no exceptions. Various Enforcer tactics will need to be shown; defectiveness will be uncovered should it be detected. Report to Sector 211B of Iacon Central."

Whiplash shook his helm. "Prowl, what are you talking about?"

The Autobot faced him, his optics darkening a few shades. "Impaired, you are."

The Enforcer Chief narrowed his gaze. "I do not know what you mean."

Prowl sensed the dark stain of irritation, and he tilted his helm slightly, doorwings rising. "Use your processor, Whiplash."

He stepped into the hallway, dodging a crowd of trainees with a single move. Turning back to the Enforcer Chief, his gaze blazed somewhat menacingly in the dim lighting.

"What do you _think_ I mean?"

* * *

**Like, hate? Read and review please!**


	4. Chapter 4

His ventilations were deep. In and out. In and out. In. Out.

_Focus._

_Control your emotions. Do not let them overwhelm you. Control._

_Breathe. In. out. In. Out. In—_

A knock on his apartment door ripped Jazz from his quiet, fog-like reverie. Snarling in irritation, he stood and opened the door.

Smokescreen stood there, optics blazing as usual. His servos were crossed and his Phase Shifter and sword stood out in the dark.

"What've ya come ta bother meh about now, Smokescreen?"

The Guard narrowed his optics. "Whiplash wants to see you."

"So why are you here?"

"You require an escort." His optics glowed dangerously as Jazz's visor flashed. "His words, not mine."

"Ah can handle mahself."

Smokescreen turned and grinned sinisterly. "Then why am I here?"

_Actually, that's a good question. _"Fine, then." He stepped out into the hall next to the towering mech. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

"Enter."

The door opened. Xerxia entered with two mechs—one extremely tall with blazing white optics, and a smaller white mech with a crystal visor.

"Sir." The tall mech spoke, a thick foreign accent clouding his speech. "I have brought Jazz."

Whiplash nodded, shuttering his optics. Xerxea urged them in, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. She, along with Smokescreen and Jazz, took their seats. After a moment of silence so thick it was as if the Sea of Rust's storms had solidified, the Chief spoke.

"Do you know why I called you here?" The tilt of his helm showed he was addressing Jazz.

_Other than ta wake meh up for some useless scrap?_ "No, sir, Ah don't."

"It has been told that you volunteered to be our resident detective's assistant."

"With all due respect, sir, could this not have waited until Ah was fully online?" Jazz felt Smokescreen's fiery gaze on him, but impassive he remained.

"No, it could not." Whiplash uncovered his gaze and stood. His presence seemed to fill the room.

"He wishes to see you. Now."

* * *

Jazz stood outside the black door, urging himself to get it over with. Whenever he raised his clenched fist, it lowered, and he chastised himself. Why couldn't he _knock on a door_, of all things?

_He's a malfunctioned, stuck-up, glitch-headed psychopath._

"I highly disagree."

He whipped around to see a mech with a piercing gaze that made Jazz feel as if he were examining him for faults and triumphs. The mech was mainly black, with gold accents. Doorwings—a Praxian's mark—rose from his back; the spiked panels currently raised.

"Ah…what do ya disagree with?"

The mech clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his helm as if in curiosity. "Clearly, your error in judgment."

"Mah error in—?"

"You were clearly chastising yourself for you inability to knock on the door currently in front of you, wondering why you could not do so. Your mind answered, 'He's a malfunctioned, stuck-up, glitch-headed psychopath." The mech's optics darkened slightly. "That is what I disagree with."

Jazz stared. Had he been watching?

"How did ya—_what Ah thought_? How did ya get tha'?"

The mech's doorwings rose and fell in one sharp motion as if he were venting in irritation. "Quite simple, really. The grim set of your shoulders, the height of your helm—dropped as if in disgust. It is obvious."

_O…kay. _"Might Ah ask who ya are?"

The mech had his back to him. "I am the owner of this room."

_Scrap. _"Do ya know who Ah am?"

"You are Jazz, Enforcer for four and a half vorns. You have regular, nearly-daily disputes with your associates Redstar and Smokescreen. Smokescreen was a member of Optimus Prime's team; he is widely known for his secretive methods and cunning. Redstar has a fiery temper that no one appreciates. You would not be an Enforcer if you were able to get a job of higher pay; thought you admit you enjoy the thrill of a high-speed chase." Prowl whipped around, doorwings raised despite the impassive look on his faceplate. "Am I correct?"

Jazz shrugged. "Ah guess."

The Praxian stared at him unblinkingly, faceplate revealing nothing of the thoughts and calculations going through his processor. Jazz stared back, glaring just as intensely. After a moment, the Autobot turned away, entering an open command; it was encrypted, so even as Jazz attempted to crack the complex puzzle, its code was unknown.

"What are you doing?" The Praxian's voice tore his from his thoughts.

"Ah'm standing, what does it look long?"

"You are in my computer's systems." His turned his helm ever so slightly, optics flashing. "Get out."

Jazz's visor blazed white. "How did ya know?"

"It told me." His voice echoed as he entered his apartment. Jazz lingered, not sure if he wanted to be alone in a room with a psychopath.

"Did I not tell you to stop calling me by that absurd designation?"

"How did ya—?"

"Enter." The command was given in a calm manner, though his urgency and irritation was felt. Jazz did as told, feeling small as the massive black doorway towered over him.

"Sure do got a large apartment," Jazz observed as he stared.

"Irrational." The mech's disembodied voice came from somewhere in the apartment.

"How?" If this partnership would only result in the contradiction of everything the Polyhexian said, as well as do nothing but irritate him, he wanted no part.

"It is implausible to conclude that I am knowingly attempting to injure your emotional status while I am simply informing you on the truth." His voice was unnervingly close, making Jazz whip around to nothing but complete darkness.

"Well, ya _are_ tryin' ta do somethin'," Jazz drawled, opening his scanners. Try as he might, the detective's life signal could not be found.

_Stupid piece of glitch-headed garbage_, he thought vehemently.

"Will you cease chastising yourself? You are going to give me a processor ache."

Jazz felt a presence near him, but before he could turn, the lights flashed on. The detective was standing there, servos crossed and a severe look on his faceplate.

"How do ya always know what Ah'm thinkin'?"

"I have already told you." The Praxian stared at him intently, enough to cause the Polyhexian to shift from one pede to the other. The motion caused a clanking sound to come from his subspace. A thought stabbed Jazz's mind like a plasma-charged dagger.

"Where do ya want mah stuff?" Jazz said, placing a hand on his subspace as if the inquiry hadn't been evident.

The Praxian jerked as if attacked by a magnetic pulse. "Follow." He whipped past the Enforcer, heading into a hallway as silent as a phantom.

Jazz lingered, visor shifting from blue to white as doubt placed its hold on him. Problems and solutions raced through his mind, things such as doubted sanity and tactics. He didn't realize he was frozen in place until a voice startled him.

"Now!"

He hurried after the detective, still wondering if he really was crazy for doing this.

* * *

"Sir?"

The mech at the desk turned.

"The bait had been laid."

_When?_

The messenger shifted from one pede to the other. "Two orns from now, at the Central Docks near the backwash plains."

The other nodded, making a sound of approval. _Leave._

The mech bowed and left.

A grin crossed his faceplate, revealing jagged dentia that could cut through metal.

_It has begun._

* * *

**Cliffhanger! What will happen next?**

**And for those wondering, think of Smokescreen's accent as Russian (thick, rolls his r's, etc.) I don't know where the idea came from...just...appeared. **

**Like, hate? Read and review, please!**


	5. Chapter 5

_CRASH._

Jazz onlined quickly, visor blazing white. Where was he? How did he get here? Who—?

_Calm down, ya glitch-headed hard-helm, _he scolded himself. _You're Prowl's new assistant._

But what was that noise?

Scrambling to his pedes, he tore out of the room. "Detective!"

The room was pitch black. His scanners couldn't pick up any life signals. Where was the detective? He ran his hand over the wall, searching for a light switch and turning it on.

"What the—?"

Prowl sat in the middle of the room, legs crossed. He was motionless, his optics shuttered and helm slightly bowed, chin resting in palm. He seemed perfectly fine, aside from being utterly motionless.

_CRASH._

It came from the kitchen. He approached slowly, scanners and sensors on high. He could not sense a life force, so what was making that noise?

A low growl sounded, startling the Polyhexian. He realized it had come from the detective. Did he know something about the noise and didn't want Jazz to investigate? He ran a quick scan of the detective's vitals, and it showed that he was in deep recharge and wouldn't be waking up any time soon.

Curiosity won over fear.

He kept his sensors open, despite the fact that he could find nothing. The noise had stopped, replaced by a loud thud as rumbling as the thunder experienced on Earth. He noticed the large cabinet rattle every so often and with a magnetic pulse he slowly pulled it open—and stared in shock.

The head of a mech stared back at him. There was a gruesome gash on what remained of the neck, congealed Energon seeping into the floor of the shelf. The armor was decayed in patches, peeling off in places and flaking in others. It was lurching around as if it were still alive. It was a horrible, nauseating sight.

"Detective." He headed back into the living room. He was still in recharge.

"Detective." He hesitantly reached out a servo. "There's somethin' ya should see."

The Praxian did not respond.

Groaning in irritation, he shook the detective's servo. "Prowl!"

His optics snapped open, and in all one second, he was on his pedes—and Jazz was across the room.

"What in the world what tha' for?" the Polyhexian demanded, visor blazing white.

The detective didn't answer. He was venting heavily, optics glowing dangerously bright. Jazz noticed the somewhat insane look in the other's gaze and caution overtook him as Prowl made his way over to him, who was currently upside down. He noticed that the detective's digits were clawed, identical to a Decepticon's.

The Praxian now stood over him, his gaze narrow and filled with fury. He leaned down and spoke in a quiet, calm voice stained with a hint a menace.

"What were you doing?"

Jazz shifted so the world was right side up. "Ah was tryin' ta get ya attention."

"Why?"

"The noise." He rubbed a servo over his faceplate, aware of a gash. "It woke meh up and Ah came ta investigate." He pointed to the kitchen. "There's a slaggin' helm in the fridge! A _helm!"_

Prowl nodded. "I am aware of that." He straightened, holding out a servo to assist Jazz. He didn't, instead forcing himself up and watching as the Praxian sat down in the living room.

"Tha's it?"

The Praxian's doorwings twitched. "Explain your inquiry."

"Ya wake up, throw meh the room, an' don't react at all when Ah tell ya there's a head in the fridge? How glitched-up are ya?"

At this, Prowl turned his helm slightly, enough for Jazz to see his optics. They were glowing again, filled with irritation despite the look of impassiveness on his faceplate. Jazz glanced back indignantly, wanting an answer.

The Praxian vented sharply, turning away. "You assume that I am 'glitched-up', as you put it, but I do not have an opinion for this judgment."

"Are ya jus' sayin' tha' ta please yourself?"

His left doorwing twitched. "Explain."

"Don't play computer with meh, Prowl!" The Polyhexian snarled, banging a fist on the wall. He had heard about the Praxian's impassiveness, and how he more often than not referred to logic to dictate situations, but by the _pit_ this was _ridiculous._ "What did ya do ta make everyone so scared 'bout ya? What happened?"

"I do not believe anything occurred to bring forth the trepidation of the staff."

Jazz's temper flared. "Don' make me ask again."

"If you desire the need to ask again, then do so."

Magnetic waves rolled off of the Polyhexian. "Slag it, Prowl, stop stallin'!" Was he enjoying torturing Jazz like this?

"It would be appreciated if you did not destroy our home." The metal walls were warping and creaking, twisting in the visored Autobot's rage.

"Don't tell meh what Ah can or can't do!" He paced the room, fury rolling off of him in waves. "If ya think that it isn't a big deal on why everyone's so scared 'round ya, why won't ya tell meh _why_?"

Prowl exhaled slowly, his doorwings rising. In one fluid motion, he was on his pedes. He walked past the other silently, no emotion coming from him, a cold wind trailing in his wake.

"Where do ya think you're goin'?"

No response came.

Growling in frustration, he followed the detective, rage dimming to a dull roar. The hallway was dark, and since the detective could never be sensed, he _hoped_ he was going in the right direction. He was still wary of what the detective might do should he find him in a restricted room.

"Are you going to linger all orn or must I force you?"

Jazz scowled; the detective was in the room farthest from him. "It'd be a whole lot easier if Ah wasn't tryin' ta track a bot with no life signal!" At that moment, a signature appeared on his radar, and he followed it, all the while grumbling under his breath.

"Is this satisfactory?" The detective stood near the window, looking out of it. The light coming from the moon facing them was reflected off of the mech's black armor, bleaching it white.

"What're ya showin' meh now? Another head, or is it an entire chassis?"

"The head was a colleague of mine." The Praxian sounded distracted, his gaze fixed on whatever was outside.

"Ya sure ya didn't steal it?"

The detective's wings flicked. "What use would I have for a head?"

"Ya tell meh." He approached the window. "What are ya starin' at?"

Prowl moved aside slightly. "Do you see the two mechs?"

Jazz glanced at him in disbelief, but the detective only shook his helm. "If you are to be my assistant, you must be able to follow commands and answer questions. Do you see them?"

He vented sharply. "Ah don't see the point of this."

"Your answer."

Rolling his optics beneath his visor, he looked out of the window. At first, nothing could be seen, but once his optical sensors readjusted the silhouettes of two Cybertronians could be seen. One was taller than the other with large wings and glowing conduits, while the other had no outstretched appendages but tall bull-like horns.

"Yes, Ah seem 'em. What about it?"

"They are unnerved about something. Look at the way the short one is moving, how he presents himself. The other is as still as if he were in stasis, obviously irritated with the other."

"So what's the deal and why are ya makin' meh watch?"

"They need help, but are hesitant to enter—"

"—because of ya rep." Jazz revved quietly, tilting his helm as he attempted to figure out why.

"Stop thinking." Prowl straightened, his doorwings flicking up. "You do so too much, you do realize?"

"What, so now ya can hear mah thoughts?" As if there wasn't enough strange things going on.

The detective didn't seem to hear the Polyhexian's jibe. "Go wait by the door."

"What for?"

No response came, but the Praxian's grip on the windowsill tighten visibly. Jazz decided to leave before the Autobot decided to throw him out of the window.

After a moment of annoyed waiting, he finally broke the silence.

"What's the point of makin' meh—?"

The doorbell rang.

"That is why." Prowl appeared near him in his strange, silent way. Jazz moved aside to let the Praxian enter the encrypted command, something he would continue to try and crack when the detective was not near enough for him sense it.

Prowl opened the door. The two mechs they had seen earlier stood there, the smaller one fidgeting nervously. Jazz noticed the detective's optics flickering slightly, as if he were about to offline at any moment. After a moment, they brightened, and the Praxian narrowed his gaze and spoke to the two.

"Yes?"

"You are Prowl, are you not?" the short one questioned in a slightly shaky voice.

"I am." The Praxian clasped his hands behind his back. "Do you need something?"

The tall one spoke in another language, his voice deep and gravelly, as rumbling as thunder.

"I have heard of it," Prowl replied, nodding. "How long ago was it?"

He spoke again, and Prowl listened, nodding from time to time, motionless until the other finished speaking.

The Praxian moved back, doorwings flicking the air. "Very well. You may enter."

As they did, Jazz intercepted the detective's path. "Hold on. What's going on?"

He faced him, optics flickering once more. "Do you not speak the language of Kaon?"

Jazz scowled. "No, Ah don', if it wasn't obvious. But neither of 'em look as if they come from Kaon. The one's winged an' most likely from Vos, an' the other's the same as Cliff."

"Obviously, the tall one was not born in Kaon, but was raised there, speaking their language. Most likely he was orphaned and raised by one in Kaon. The other, of the same sub-race as Cliffjumper, as you put it, is his companion."

"Ya got all tha' from the way he spoke?"

Prowl looked down at him. "You did not."

Jazz shook his helm, venting in exasperation. "No, Ah didn't. How did ya?"

"One learns to observe and read others quickly where I am from." The Praxian turned, ending their discussion, and faced the two, motioning to chairs surrounding a table. "You do not have to stand. My chairs will not bite."

The two looked at each other, and in the end the horned one sat. Jazz looked questioningly to the tall one, who stared back and crossed his servos, conduits lining them like veins, as a grave and slightly irritated look appeared on his faceplate.

"Must you be locked in an eternal staring contest?" Prowl questioned, staring intensely at Jazz.

"Fine, no reason to get all snappy." The Polyhexian sat, visor switching from blue to white.

Prowl leaned forward in his chair, chair resting in his palm. His gaze was narrow and cold as it pierced the two mechs. It only made the horned one even more nervous; he was shaking rather... violently.

It seemed that the Praxian stared for joors on end.

"Uh…Prowl?"

He did not respond.

The tall Kaonite growled, although it may have been a statement. The shorter one fidgeted nervously.

"Calm down, now," Jazz snapped, having had enough with the nervousness of the other. "Ya can wait, can't ya?"

"Actually, we can't," the short one retorted. "We have limited time here and cannot wait, for your information."

"It ain't mah fault that he froze like this," Jazz growled, visor blazing a blinding white.

"You're his partner. Shouldn't you know of his erratic behaviors?" The small mech was growing ever more confident. Jazz could feel his engine rumble in annoyance.

"What's tha' s'pposed to mean? Ah jus' got here."

"He seems to run through partners rather quickly. You'll be gone before you know it."

Jazz snarled at this, rising from his seat. The Kaonite stepped forward, the dark light in his optics daring Jazz to do something.

_Oh, Ah'll do somethin' all right_, he thought furiously, digits curling into claws.

"That is enough."

They whipped around to see Prowl on his pedes, glaring at them.

Jazz barked out a laugh. "What's makes ya think Ah'll stop?"

Prowl fixed his stare on Jazz, and a strange feeling overwhelmed him. His body locked as if it were in stasis and his ventilations were cut short. Despite this, he could still see and hear normally.

The Praxian faced the Kaonite. "Remind me why you are here."

* * *

**Okay, Chapter 5! Hope you liked! For those of you who have read this before, you may have noticed I changed some things. **

**I did not mention the two mechs that came. The Kaonite (or Kaonian, as some call them) is a former saboteur and assassin named Xerxion. He is still well-feared currently, and both Prowl and Jazz have heard of them. Jazz's dislike for Xerxion stems from the fact that he had dealt with him in his life as an Enforcer before meeting Prowl. His companion, of the same sub-race as Cliffjumper (I made Cliff's horns an actual part of his anatomy, not just an accessory) is named Chrome. No fancy background; he works with Xerxion a lot.**

**Note: Cybertronian Sub-Races (in my terms) are Cybertronians who have a certain feature that classifies them into a group. They can include what city they are from. Examples include 1.) _Kaonites/Kaonians_ (wings, thick accents...not the same as Seekers from Vos) 2.) _Praxians_ (doorwings, high intelligence, natural curiosity) 3.) _Seekers _(wings such as TFP Starscream's, slender bodies, snobby/rude/elegant)**

**There you go! Questions, review and/or PM me!**


	6. Chapter 6

**So here's Chapter 6 of my story Suspicion.**

**I've also been meaning to ask...do you guys like how I changed Smokescreen? I know he isn't the energetic, lively bot you guys are used to from _Prime_, and I was just wondering, and no one's said anything about it in the reviews, so...**

* * *

"_Jazz_."

He groaned, shaking his helm. _Leave meh alone._

"_Jazz_."

The voice was like a knife ramming through his mind, and he cringed, hands clenching into fists.

"_Wake up_."

He shook his helm. "No. Let meh… rest."

There was no answer, and then out of the blue a sharp rap hit him. He shot up, optics snapping open.

Prowl stood over him, staring down. His doorwings were raised and a look of cold indifference was on his faceplate. His servos were crossed and the light shining above him outlined his frame.

"What?" Jazz's voice came out filled with static, and he cleared his vocalizer.

"Did you honestly think I would _let_ you rest when you are on duty?" the Praxian questioned.

"Ya would if ya had this slaggin' processor ache," Jazz grumbled, sitting up. "What happened?"

"Chrome and Xerxion visited. You started a fight with Xerxion."

"Ah know, but what happened _after_ tha'? Ah couldn't move."

The Praxian tilted his helm, doorwings flicking the air. "Yes, you could not. An ability I do not favor using. Very illogical."

Jazz stared. "Wait, ya mean _ya_ did tha'? How?"

"Where do you think I am from?"

_He didn't answer the question_, he thought. "What does tha' have ta do with anythin'?"

"You will understand, sooner or later, what my inquiry means." Prowl was now across the room, entering the open command. "Are you well enough for travel?"

"Ah ain't purgin', so yeah, Ah'm well. Why?"

Prowl faced the Polyhexian, and Jazz could see the psychotic excitement blazing in the detective's gaze. "We have our first case."

"So, what's goin' on?"

"Honestly, do you need refreshing every five kliks? Xerxion and Chrome's current hometown has been ravaged by a sadistic stream of robberies and murders. They recently witnessed a few and came to us to inform us on the current situation. They had to come unannounced, as the crime spree was run by a tyrant-like crime lord, one who had spies everywhere."

"So we're goin' to stop 'im?"

"Precisely." The Praxian turned without warning, making a couple yell in frustration.

"Excuse us," Jazz apologized, rushing after the detective. "So tell meh why we aren't drivin'?"

"It is not something I favor, and, in addition, it is rush hour." He motioned to the roads, which were cluttered with vehicles honking at one another.

"You're just full of surprises, aren't ya?"

"If you say so." The Praxian froze suddenly, making Jazz screech to a stop and swerve around him.

"Prowl, what're ya doin'? Ya can't just freeze like tha'!" When he didn't respond, Jazz's gaze narrowed. "Prowl?"

The Praxian's servo shot out, muffling the other's speech. His gaze was frighteningly cold, and his doorwings were raised high.

"Prowl!"

_Be silent._

"What—?"

_Silent! _The Praxian was motionless, doorwings twitching as if they were nervous about something.

"How am Ah s'posed ta talk?" His voice was a whisper.

_Think. Dear Primus, are you always this glitch-headed?_

_Ah wouldn't have asked if Ah knew ya had telepathy. _He paused. _Is this why ya freeze?_

_Occasionally. One has to stop and think at some point in their lives._

_Are ya goin' ta tell meh why we're standin' here?_

_Follow. _Prowl turned and entered a nearby alley. Jazz did as told, feeling as if he were being watched.

_Can we talk aloud now?_

The Praxian didn't answer. He was staring across the street at something, his doorwings raised again.

_Pr—_

_Quiet! I cannot think with your incessant rambling. _He continued staring. Jazz fidgeted, restless, as he moved from one pede to the other, trying to find out what had caught the detective's interest so much.

"Come." The Praxian spoke after a moment, straightening from his crouch with his doorwings twitching.

"What were ya starin' at?" He hurried after the detective.

"Evidence."

**. . . **

Jazz moved down the street, the package Prowl had wanted him to get in his subspace. He had no idea what it was, but he knew by the Praxian's urgency that it had something to do with the case.

"Jazz!"

He turned. A small femme, one pushing mini-bot, was rushing towards him.

"What—? Windstar?" Jazz grunted as she tackled him, laughing as she wrapped her servos around him. "What're ya doin' out here?"

"I live here, idiot!" She grinned up at him.

"Since when?"

"Since you never contacted me after the Battle of Darkmount." Windstar crossed her servos. "What are you doing here?"

"Pickin' up somethin' for a friend of mine. Ah work with the police department of Iacon and the friend's a little…mixed up sometimes, but otherwise it's fine there."

"Who's the friend? Are you in a relationship?"

Jazz stared down at the little femme. "Me, in a relationship? What would give ya tha' idea?"

"I don't know. You've always been so lonely and detached, I just thought…" She trailed off as his visor blazed white. "So…would you like to come over to my place? We need to catch up on things."

"Ah…" He didn't meet her gaze.

"Oh." Windstar's gaze lowered. "You're too busy, I can see."

"No, no, it's not tha'. It's just…my friend is a sociopath. Hates meetin' new people. But," he added at her oncoming look of disappointment, "Ah'll see what Ah can do. Come on."

* * *

"This is where you live? It's enormous!"

"Don' say tha' aloud." Jazz searched the room. "Prowl!"

"I am here, no reason to shout." The tall, silent Praxian appeared. he froze at the sight of Windstar, his doorwings shooting up. "Who are you?"

"Prowl, this is Windstar. I used to be on a stealth team with her organized by Ultra Magnus."

"Why is she here?"

"She wanted ta meet ya. Ah told her Ah worked with ya."

The Praxian approached them silently, his cold, emotionless optics glowing in the dim light. "What would be the point of this? There is nothing to see here."

"Prowl, she lives near Chrome and Xerxion's place. Maybe she knows something about the murders."

"What?" Windstar froze, her optics wide. "What murders?"

"So you are aware of the crimes." Prowl was suddenly closer, his optics narrow.

"No, I'm not. What are you talking about?" She looked genuinely terrified and began to back away as the detective stalked towards her.

"Prowl, enough." Jazz stood protectively in front of the miniscule femme. "She doesn't know nothin'."

"_Anything_," Prowl hissed. "She does not know _anything_." He fixed his cold stare on the femme.

Jazz considered this for a moment, but still stayed in front of Windstar. "Okay, fine. What if she did know somethin' 'bout the murders? Tha's no reason to go scarin' her."

"Fear is a result of confusion and nervousness," the Praxian stated, his voice low and practically a growl. Jazz noticed the detective's clawed hands glint in the light. Was it just him, or did his optics flash red whenever the light caught them?

"Jazz." Windstar's shaky voice brought him back to the present. "He's scaring me."

"Ah know tha'," he muttered, facing Prowl once again. "Detective, let's try ta find better ways ta get info on the attacks. Ways tha' _don'_ involve threatenin'."

_You and your inconsequential emotions. _The Praxian's voice sounded in his head.

_Hey, don' go dissin' on mah emotions jus' 'cause ya don' have any._

_Everything has emotions._

_By the way ya act, ya sure make others think ya don'._

The detective vented aloud, facing the frightened femme. "Forgive my actions. I am never aware of the way they affect surrounding individuals." His doorwings twitched. "I came off rather…harsh. Would it be acceptable if you could talk about the attacks?"

"What makes you think I know anything about them?" she demanded.

Prowl's doorwings flared. "Did you not hear my explanation? You were clearly intimidated by one of the crime lord's, if not himself, workers, forced into keeping whatever dark secrets he possesses pertaining to the felonies."

"Alright, cool it," Jazz stated as Windstar began to back away again. He looked down at her. "Windstar, ya now know tha' since ya know 'bout the murders, we have to question ya, alright?"

She looked so frightened that it nearly made Jazz want to take back what he said. But, work was work, and Whiplash would have him melted to scrap metal if he turned down such an opportunity.

"Okay," she said eventually. "I'll talk."

* * *

**Did you like? Tell me if there's any grammatical or spelling errors.**

**Also, if you review (please do) tell me what you think about it. Do you like Windstar?**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, here's Chapter 7. Just letting you guys know now, the updates are going to stop for a while; I'm going to band camp soon and my time on my laptop will be coming to a stop. I'll try and update regularly when I get back.**

**Warning: This chapter may be a little depressing, depending on who you are.**

**Enjoy, read, and review, please!**

* * *

The room was dimly lighted. Windstar was seated in a chair. Jazz was lounging rather nonchalantly in another, his legs over the side and his visored gaze on Prowl.

The Praxian was pacing, seemingly unnerved about something plaguing his mind. His doorwings were raised high, his hands clasped behind his back. His optics were shuttered, and his mouthplates were moving, muttering inaudible words.

Jazz watched somewhat nervously. Why was the detective so on edge? Was that the appropriate word? Prowl was not edgy, he was…what was he?

"Start with what happened to make this crime lord come to your town." The Praxian's voice tore him from his thoughts.

Windstar shifted in her seat, her wings pointed downward. "My hometown was always chaotic and disorganized. Riots and gangs were always somewhere, and so many murders took place it was common to find randomly discarded bodies."

"You spoke of riots. Why did such things take place? I have it narrowed to two causes: a badly organized government or a leader who cared only for himself and gave nothing to the town."

"Th-The government," she stammered. "They…it was full of stuck-up, hard-helmed fools. All of them 'royalty', or so they say themselves. They cared for no one except themselves and were too stubborn to listen to our protests and ideas on reorganization." Her optics darkened suddenly, and her wings shot up. "The glitch-heads…it would be nice for someone to take over."

"You speak of someone taking over, and that it would be 'nice', as you put it. Why do you say something like that if someone has already taken over?"

_Easy, _Jazz insisted. _She's doin' her best. She _is_ terrified of ya._

_So you say. _The Praxian's voice showed he was unconvinced.

_She is, an' ya know it._

"I was coming to that." The femme was now mildly annoyed, Jazz knew, from the height of her wings and the shine of her optics.

"I assume this usurper was the crime-lord?"

"Yes."

"He abused his power, did he—" The Praxian cut off suddenly, freezing in place. Jazz was about to ask what was wrong when his comm-link whirred to life.

"_You are needed, Jazz_." Smokescreen's rumbling voice sounded.

"Ah'm in ta middle of a questionin', Smokescreen. Can't it wait?"

The warrior growled. "_I am fine if _you_ are the one to tell Whiplash you ignored his orders_."

Jazz scowled darkly, aware that the sudden change in his mood frightened Windstar. He turned sharply away, ducking his helm so she wouldn't hear. "Watch ya tone, Smoke. Ah'm busy, and Ah'm on a lead for a case."

"_A case_?" The Praxian's voice deepened. "_With no authority from Whiplash_?"

Jazz snarled. "Ya are a real stickler for rules, aren't ya?"

Smokescreen was quiet a moment, but his engine could be heard growling threateningly. The Polyhexian was aware not to push the warrior too much; Smokescreen was a force to be reckoned with when he was in one of his rages.

"_Perhaps I am_." The Praxian's voice was eerily calm. "_But you should know Whiplash has demanded the presence of you and your partner. There has been a murder_."

"Why didn't ya say somethin' inta first place?"

The Enforcer growled. "_Report to the backwater alleys of the Tower community, near Riskave Central. It is near Mirage's place_."

"Hold on." Jazz's processor was still a few words behind. "Mirage? As in filthy rich, uptight, Tower mech Mirage?"

Smokescreen hissed, while at the same time his engine growled. Jazz was startled at the noise for a moment before remembering that Mirage was one of Smokescreen's relatives. It figured—they had the same black tempers and thought they were better than everyone else.

"_Get your chasses over here. Now_." The line disconnected.

Jazz narrowed his gaze, his visor blazing as he was swept up in the tide of his furious musings. He knew he shouldn't let Smokescreen get to him, but the Praxian knew where all of his buttons were and how to press them accordingly.

"I apologize for cutting this short," the Praxian detective informed Windstar, his voice controlled but his doorwings trembling and showing his rapidly increasing excitement, "But we are needed elsewhere. Jazz, if you would show her out?"

The Polyhexian nodded, jerking his helm to signal to Windstar to leave with him. As he exited the room, he received a private comm. from the detective.

_Meet me in front of the complex. Make sure you have the essential Enforcer supplies._

_Never leave without 'em. _

"Jazz?"

He shut off the comm., facing Windstar. It was then that it hit him—she was so small and vulnerable. How could she have grown up in such a violent hometown, let alone one ruled by a crime lord? It made him want to rip out his spark for hurting such a beautiful femme.

Wait—_beautiful_?

"Yes, Windstar?" He looked down at her, visor softening and losing the rage that had hung over him for a while.

"Are you okay? You've been acting weird since you froze up earlier." She stared up at him, her soft optics holding concern.

"Ah'm fine, Windstar. Jus'…thinkin', tha's all." He held open the door for her, and noticed her wings jerk up in surprise. Jazz was the kind of mech—at least, when they had known each other better—that would hold a door open, slam it on your pede, laugh at your pain, and then make sure he didn't break it before laughing some more.

"Jazz." She spoke once again. "I'm sorry."

"For what? You ain't done anythin'."

"Your friend doesn't seem to like me, and my attitude wasn't improving things." Her tiny servos crossed over her chest, wrapping herself in her own embrace. "I made everything worse than it already was. He hates me, doesn't he?"

Jazz felt himself screech to a stop, his engine choking. She thought Prowl _hated_ her?

"Windstar." When she didn't respond, he repeated her designation with more force. "Windstar. Look at meh." She did, but not before he steeled himself for the look of self-hatred and sadness and fear in her gaze. "Prowl does not hate ya. Ah told ya before—he ain't used ta meetin' new bots. An' ta way he acted in there—Windstar, _look at meh_. Ah ain't kiddin' with ya, alright? Ta way Prowl acted today is how he acts all ta time. He's ta same, cold, emotionless mech every orn. Do not beat yourself up 'cause ya think ya made someone hate ya."

"But it's not just with him. No one likes me, no one talks to me. It's as if I don't even exist. I'm stepped on all the time, I'm ridiculed, and all of my ideas are either rejected or stolen and put under someone else's name. I'm worthless, and everyone tells me so."

Jazz felt a surge of anger to whoever told the femme, this strong, beautiful femme that she was worth nothing. "Windstar." He placed his servos on her shoulder panels. "Ya are not worthless. Ya are anythin' but. Ya are ta strongest, kindest femme Ah've ever had ta pleasure o' knowin'." He held her chin in his hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "If anyone ever tells ya otherwise, ya come tell meh and Ah'll see ta it personally tha' they see meh in a rage."

She smiled slightly. "I appreciate you looking out for me, Jazz, but please don't tear anyone limb from limb. You don't need to be incarcerated for assault."

Jazz grinned back, his visor flashing. "Ah ain't givin' ya any promises. Ya can make it back fine on ya own?"

Windstar put her servos on her hips. "Jazz, I've lived there all my life. I know where to go."

"Jus' checkin'. Ya be careful, now, hear?"

"I will." She walked away, aware of the Polyhexian watching her as he began to leave. The sound of rushing footsteps reached him, and before he could process what was happening, Windstar had tackled him and enveloped him in a strong hug that contradicted her small frame.

"Windstar, what—?"

She buried her face in his chest for a moment before looking up at him. Tears of expelled Energon streaked down her face, and then she buried her face once more. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Ya shouldn't be thanking meh," he whispered back, stroking her helm in gentle movements. Primus, she was so small. He could easily crush her if he wanted to. "Ya should be thanking yourself."

"Why?" Her large optics were fixed on him again.

"For believing what Ah told ya an' not dismissing it without a second thought." His comm-link whirred impatiently, and he pulled back. "Prowler's getting annoyed. Ah have ta go."

Windstar laughed at the Praxian's new nickname before letting out a disappointed vent, hugging him tighter. "Find me later, okay? We still need to talk."

"Ah will. Now get. Ah don' want ta keep Prowler waitin'."

"Okay. Bye, Jazz."

"Later."

* * *

**You guys still haven't told me if you like my version of Smokescreen, or if you like Windstar. I'm assuming you do?**


	8. Chapter 8

**Whoo! Chapter 8! Sorry for the wait! Hey, I rhymed! :)**

**This chapter had been originally written with Mirage speaking a different language. While he still is, I decided to rewrite this with him speaking in his native language but with italicized English instead. I know there were a few of you who read this while it was written in the other language, and I apologize for the confusion.**

**HAS BEEN EDITED!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Prowl was waiting where he said he would be, his servos crossed and doorwing fanning the air. He glanced over at the approaching Polyhexian.

"Settle your affairs at a later time," the Praxian murmured. His optics were dim.

"Excuse meh if the femme needed comfortin'," Jazz muttered. Prowl did not answer, making him look in surprise and slight suspicion.

"Are we drivin' or walkin'?"

"It would be better if we drove. Riskave is too far for on pede." He transformed, and without another word, sped away.

_What crawled up your tailpipe and died?_ Jazz vented and followed.

The house where the murder had taken place was already surrounded by Enforcers by the time they arrived. As they approached, a mech stalked towards them, his red paintjob glinting in the dim light, and his matching optics glowing with anger. A femme trailed after him.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Enough, Bloodstorm." The Praxian vented, showing rare irritation.

"Ya could 'ave commed us earlier," Jazz snapped. "Do ya know how long it takes ta get from Iacon Central ta the Towers?"

The mech scowled, but the femme spoke up. "We're not here to fight." Her voice was smooth and calm. She motioned to the building. "Smokescreen and a witness are inside waiting for you."The house's interior was a mess. Fragments of glass and metal covered the halls and every available spot on the floor. The lights were no longer functional and seemed to have been extinguished by an acidic source. Energon soaked the floor, sticking to their pedes in strings as they made their way through.

"Where are they?" Jazz hissed to a nearby Enforcer, a young mech with thin and long arms and legs who was taking photos of the crime scene.

"In there, sir," the mech responded, a tremor running through his body as he pointed to a nearby room and backed away from the two.

Jazz muttered inaudible words, nodding his thanks and heading into the room. Prowl was speaking to another Praxian, the massive and towering dark blue mech with a fiery expression that he recognized as Smokescreen. A mech the same size as him stood near him, his pristine white paint giving off a ghostly glow. His golden optics were narrowed and blazing, but he almost seemed bored with the conversation that was going on between the two near him.

Jazz stared, trying to figure out how Prowl had arrived there before him. The Praxian's doorwings flared as they picked up his signal, and he turned.

"How nice of you to finally join us," the detective murmured. "Have a look, and shut the door behind you."

Jazz entered the room completely, doing as told—and stared.

The bodies of several mechs hung from the ceiling, coils of metal wrapped around the shredded remains of their necks. Gashes lined their frames, and congealed Energon trickled from the wounds. Their helms hung at odd angles, their lifeless optics glazed and unseeing. The disturbing thing, though—not that the overall scene was not disturbing—were the cheerful grins plastered on their faces.

"Who would do something like this?" the Polyhexian demanded, armor flaring. "These mechs were innocent."

The white mech spoke, his voice silky and as deep as his cousin's. "_They are not innocent_."

Jazz fixed his gaze on him, optics flashing. If there was one thing he could speak, it was the Tower dialect. "How so?"

The mech's lip components curled into a scowl, exposing long, glinting dentia. "_They have been causing trouble for years, always getting into things they should not be If anything, I am glad that this happened. We are rid of nuisances that could have been killed by...other means_."

"Are you the only one who had a grudge against them?" the Polyhexian questioned, crossing his arms.

The other mech snarled. "_Are you accusing me of murder? Let me remind you right now that I am a witness, and I do not take it lightly when I am accused of something I did not do._"

"Easy, Mirage," Smokescreen stated, placing a hand on the noble's servo while sending Jazz a warning look. The Tower mech hissed, glaring at the Polyhexian before him.

"No." The dark blue mech reverted to Tower dialect suddenly, startling them. "_They are not worth it. You deem it unworthy to get into petty disputes, so why would you risk breaking that rule now_?" When the other began to protest, Smokescreen shook his helm, raising a servo to silence his relative. "_No, Mirage, no. Leave it. They are not doing anything than being the irritating coworkers they are every day. Leave if you cannot handle restraining yourself_."

Mirage scowled, but moved into the shadows, out of the way. His narrow golden optics blazed

"Ah never thought Ah'd see the day when Smokescreen restrained himself from beatin' meh up," Jazz stated, grinning.

Smokescreen scowled, doorwings rising and armor flaring. "Do not become acclimated to such changes. It is only for the good of the case."

Jazz scoffed. "An fer tha good o' ya pride, ain't it, mech? Ya an' Mirage are just too uptight ta put up wit' low class slag like meh, ain't ya?" His visor flashed provocatively.

The navy blue Praxian narrowed his optics. Mirage sensed his cousin's darkening mood and stepped forward, fixing his tawny gaze on the Polyhexian, who was hafl-smirking and half-scowling.

_"Smokescreen does not favor caring for anyone, my dear Jazz. Praxian nobles care little about anything, in fact." _Optics flicking up briefly to the bodies hanging suspended in the air, a snarl curled the corner of his mouthplates up. _"I believe I am the only one here who could care less about this than my cousin."_

"Ah, _that _is what I have been meaning to ask." Prowl spoke suddenly, his smooth baritone voice showing no emotion as he silently approached the haughty white Praxian. "Why were you here the night of the murder?"

Mirage's optics narrowed and a powerful engine rumbled, a quiet snarl erupting from the lithe mech's mouth. _"I am certain you are all familiar with my business?"__  
_

"Yeah, yeah." Jazz waved a dismissive servo. "Ya make'n sell specialized weaponry, ta stuff tha' would get any army fightin' over it. Wha's it got ta do wit' this?"

Prowl interrupted Mirage before he could speak. "They had illegally obtained your merchandise and you came to get it back." Cold, emotionless white optics pierced the noble.

The white Praxian's doorwings flicked up and out as his engine roared. _"Anyone who steals from me will face the consequences."_

"Tha' sounds like a threat." Jazz grinned unnervingly. "Ain't tha'' right, detective?"

"Indeed, Jazz." The enigmatic Praxian kept his icy glare on Mirage as he addressed two younger Enforcers. "Arrest him." He stepped out of the way as they approached with handcuffs.

Mirage snarled, wings twitching in his growing anger. _"Do not touch me."_

The Enforcers continued anyway, speaking in unison. "Resist and we will not hesitate to use brutal force." Their armor flared and one pulled out handcuffs while the other transformed his servo into a blaster.

"Arrest on what charges?" Smokescreen spoke up, his voice icy cold and calm as he stalked toward the Enforcers handling his relative. It was as if he were being careful to keep his inner feelings out of his voice while Mirage was handcuffed. "You had better explain yourself, detective."

Prowl faced the swordsmech. "You know very well what the charges are. Your cousin has admitted to wanting these mechs dead and to being pleased that they are currently dead. He admitted to coming here last night with motive to make these mechs pay for stealing from him." Optics narrowing, he boldly met the slightly taller mech's gaze. "He is a suspect as of now and will be taken in for questioning." He ignored Smokescreen's vicious glare as the fuming Mirage was led out of the room.

Jazz snickered, visor blazing. "Sure ain't so tough now, are ya?"

As Smokescreen seemed ready to unsheathe his sword to decapitate the mech, Prowl intervened.

"Enough, Jazz," he snapped, his gaze not straying from one of the bodies suspended from the ceiling. He whipped around abruptly to face a nearby Enforcer. "It would be appreciated if a forensics specialist and some heavy lifters were procured. I want these bodies taken down."

* * *

**Sorry for how weird this was and how much it dragged with Mirage and stuff. He's speaking Latin; use Google Translate and type in what he's saying. The recordings are really cool, too!**

** PM or review for any questions, errors, and whatnot. Hope you liked it! Chapter 9 will be longer, I promise!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9! Sorry for the wait!**

* * *

"You have yet to tell me what is on your mind," Whiplash rumbled, crossing his servos as he glared down at the Praxian before him.

"A secret that will remain hidden until you muster the strength to put your indolent mind to work," the other shot back, startling the Chief. Normally Prowl was cool and collected. He never snapped at anyone.

"Don' ask meh." Jazz raised his servos as Whiplash looked towards him. "'E's been actin' like this fer some time. Ah dunno what's wrong with' 'im."

Whiplash's powerful engine rumbled as he nodded and fixed his attention back on the subject of their conversation. The detective was crouched near the stretched out bodies. His long, gloved digits traced the gruesome wounds, and his optics were dim, a sign that he was lost in his thoughts.

"Anythin'?" Jazz questioned, breaking the silence.

The detective stood in one fluid motion. "The bodies are a few orns old, wounds only slightly festered. They were killed before being hung by a mech of—" He whipped around, heading to the door and inhaling a few times near it before returning to the bodies and taking in whatever scent they were giving off, even swiping his glossa over the refined metal of the doorway. They stared in morbid fascination and slight disgust. "—thirty or so feet, recently at a bar, if I recognize the scent of high grade anywhere."

"Wha' bar?" Jazz questioned, visor flickering ever so slightly as he approached the bodies.

"Kaonian high grade," the Praxian answered, voice low as if he were lost in his thoughts.

Jazz tilted his helm. "Ah'm sorry; Ah thought Ah said _'wha' bar'_."

"Honestly, Jazz." The Praxian vented, his engine revving slightly. "They were at a _bar_ before this happened. Do you not smell the high grade on them?"

It was clear that the detective was waiting for his assistant to follow the hidden order.

Groaning, the Polyhexian leaned down and inhaled deeply, tanks churning slightly at the scent of rotting Energon, armor, and…high grade.

"Yes, Ah smell ta high grade." With a growl from his engine, the Polyhexian straightened and crossed his servos. "Are we goin' ta investigate?"

Prowl gave him a look that screamed _obviously._

"Do you know who did it?" Whiplash demanded, his armor flaring slightly from his lean and powerful frame; he was becoming irritated with their antics.

The tall Praxian dropped back into a crouch, optics narrow as he scanned the floor. "One cannot know the answer to something if one does not collect the necessary evidence." He addressed the Polyhexian, his sensor wings flared to gather any data that had been missed. "Jazz. Compare this room to the entrance. Do you notice anything different?"

Jazz straightened to attention automatically from his leaning against a nearby wall, knowing it was best not to question the motives of the strange Praxian. "Anythin' different as in evidence we missed?"

"Precisely." Doorwings flaring, the detective crossed his legs and sat casually on the Energon-soaked floor, uncaring of the lifeblood pooled around him. In fact, he almost seemed... _comfortable_ in his current position.

Jazz was not wasting time. Scanners tuned to the highest frequency, he ran multiple tests over the room, searching for anything they had missed. Clearly the detective knew something was out of place, yet he did not seem to want to take the time to look for it. What was it that intrigued the Praxian so much? What was it about those gruesome remains that caught his attention so?

Whiplash watched silently as the short-tempered Polyhexian searched the room. "What is it about him that enthralls you so?"

Prowl merely glanced up at the Enforcer Chief, doorwings twitching ever so slightly until his gaze dropped back to the mangled corpses. _What do you suggest by your statement?_

Whiplash vented, half in irritation and half in amusement. The Praxian gave the impression of loving the idea of messing with his mind. "You know what I mean, Prowl. Whenever you were near your former partners, you were more emotionless than a sheet of scrap metal. What is different about him?" He nodded almost imperceptibly at the oblivious Polyhexian.

The enigmatic Praxian glanced up again, his cold, emotionless gaze piercing the towering mech. With a quiet, slightly exasperated vent, Prowl stood. Whiplash remained strong and silent as the slightly smaller mech straightened. Within such closed distance, Whiplash could feel the faint icy aura surrounding the detective.

"You assume I 'favor' Jazz more than I did of my previous associates. Such a statement is illogical." Prowl's voice was low and apathetic; his pale optics flashed as if in challenge as the Enforcer Chief made to interject into the coldly given statement. "Emotions merely cloud the judgment one has. Logical conclusions and actions are corrupted by the inconsequential matter of rushing to save one cared for." The tall, large doorwings flared. "Do not assume you know me, Whiplash. You are terrible at it." The Praxian's vents flared slightly as his optics flickered and his refined, somewhat thin armor shifted over his frame. "While I hold no emotional connection with Jazz, I will say that I would assist him should he feel the need to contact me in a time of need." He turned, abruptly ending their conversation. "Jazz."

The Polyhexian turned at the voice. "What?" he demanded as his vents flared, rather harshly.

"Come. We must be going."

Without another word, the Praxian turned and vanished. Jazz made to, but Whiplash placed a heavy servo on the smaller bot's shoulder, stopping him.

"Sir?" The Polyhexian fixed his visor on him, his gaze unreadable.

"I wish for you to perform a task for me," the Enforcer Chief rumbled.

"Sir." For some unknown reason, the silver mech's armor flared from his streamlined frame.

Whiplash tilted his helm, engine growling. "I do not know what causes your current irritation, but there is no need to take it out on me." He crossed his powerful servos.

Jazz's visor darkened, not at all in the slightest. "Mah apologies, sir. Ah had no intention o' takin it out on ya." Vents flaring, the lithe mech turned his helm, his optics narrowing beneath his visor. "Wha' is this task ya would like meh ta do?"

The Enforcer Chief vented inwardly in exasperation. "I would like you to keep your optic on your partner." But before he could respond, the Polyhexian's engine growled.

"With all due respect, Chief," the silver mech hissed, voice dangerously low, "Ah've heard the rumors. If this is a result o' sommat that Prowl's haters brought up, Ah'd have ta object."

Whiplash narrowed his gaze. "You misunderstand me. Even if this was a complaint brought up, it is not in your knowledge to know. This is not a request. You will take in information, and deliver it to me."

The Polyhexian growled, a truly worrisome thing if the normally humorous mech was snapping at you, yet the massive mech before him was not perturbed. "Might Ah ask why ya want meh ta spy on Prowler?"

Whiplash's dark gaze blazed. "Are you questioning a superior officer?"

Jazz seemed ready to attack instead of answer, but when he did it was in tight, strained words, as if he were speaking through clenched dentia. "Very well, sir. Ah'll...let ya know if Ah agree wit' ya." Whiplash made to interrupt, but before he could, he was pinned against the wall somehow. The silver mech's claws dug into his armor as he leaned dangerously close.

"Let us get one thing straight, _Whiplash_," the Polyhexian spat. "This is mah _friend and partner_ ya're askin' meh ta spy on. An' Ah dunno 'bout ya, but it seems like ya've got no legitimate reason. So unless Ah'm not thinkin' straight, there is no reason ta be requestin' sommat like tha'." The grip tightened, razors slicing through refined armor with startling ease. "Ya've got a problem wit' Prowl, take it up with _him,_ not meh. 'Cause Ah can assure ya know, he'd have no problem takin' matters inta his own hands and fix whatever suspicion ya have o' 'im." Jazz's visor blazed, a blinding white. "Do not approach meh with this Primus-forsaken plan again."

With a vicious snarl and a rev of his engine, the Polyhexian vanished.

Whiplash glared in the direction Jazz had left. Then, after a startling silence, the mech laughed.

Black armor turned silver, and dark optics red.

"You have made a grave mistake, little Jazz."

* * *

Prowl stood beneath a flickering streetlight, optics shuttered and doorwings set in a neutral position. He said snd did nothing as the fuming Polyhexian approached.

"Wha' did ya want meh fer?" His accent was stronger than normal, one of the many side affects of his rage.

The Praxian remained silent. Then, after a long moment of silence, a deep exvent left the mech. "We need a way to track down those mechs' killers. A plan must be set in motion."

Jazz nodded, visor dimming as he was lost in thought. "Wha' if we go undercovah?"

Prowl uncovered his gaze and faced the Polyhexian. "I am sorry?" Crystal white optics narrowed at the statement.

"Ya heard meh, Prowler -" The Polyhexian smirked as the taller mech's engine stuttered to a stop at the nickname before becoming serious once again. "If we go undercovah at the bar ya said the mech or mechs were at, we might be able ta find the killer."

The Praxian's armor shifted, his engine rumbling. Jazz scowled and crossed his servos, his irritation rising once again. "Mech. We won't find another way, unless wandering around questionin' folks aimlessly is ya way o' gatherin' info. We need ta do this."

Prowl's optics were slits, yet he remained silent as his tactical computer ran a detailed analysis of the given solution. After a moment, the razor sharp gaze focused and fixed on Jazz. "Analyses show that your given solution is the best, yet it does possess a fifty-seven point five percent chance of failure." He turned away, doorwings flaring. "We will proceed with your suggestion. Meet me at my place." He moved a few steps away, ready to transform until he faced the Polyhexian. "You do realize that if the killer does turn out to be Mirage, the terms between you and Smokescreen will become even worse, do you not?"

"Yeah," Jazz sighed. "Unfortunately, tha' mech just won't trust meh. Ah dunno wha' it is about meh, but he just doesn't. He hates meh, and although Ah don' normally admit to this, Ah kinda hate 'im back." He fixed his glowing visor on the Praxian. "So we're goin' wit' mah plan?"

The Praxian nodded once. "If this does not work, we will not proceed with your suggestions. We will do this my way, understood?"

Jazz scowled and nodded. "Fine. But mah plan will work."

Prowl narrowed his optics ever so slightly. "If you say so." He turned and without another word, the mech transformed and left.

Jazz glared after him, irritation rising. "Ain't gonna kill ta trust meh," he called after the retreating Praxian. With a vent, he transformed and followed on a different path.

* * *

A lone mech prowled silently through the street. An aura of dark power and authority radiated around him, a silent warning to those who would dare foolishly confront him.

His steps slowed as he neared a looming silver building. Two stone-faced guards stood watching, one servo transformed into a blaster as a warning.

The taller of the two fixed his visored gaze on the approaching mech. His blaster whirred and churned with powerful energy as he nodded, speaking in a deep, rumbling voice. "Sir. It has been a while."

"Do not question my whereabouts, Otravă. It will not end well for you," the mech growled. "Let me in."

Otravă's optics narrowed. "Sir, the lieutenant forbade any entry in -" His words were cut off as a massive servo shot out, claws tearing into his throat.

"I do not care what the _lieutenant _said, **I **am commanding officer, and **you **will obey me." The grip tightened as the mech brought the guard close to his faceplate. "Are we clear?"

The Guard's vents rasped as he struggled to nod. When he managed to do so, he was released, and his attacker strode into the building.

A slim silver mech stood with his back to the visitor, tall wings flared. As they picked up the signal of the entering mech, he turned, large white optics widening.

"M-Master." With a bow, the Vocian approached noiselessly. "I thought you were not to be back in four quartexes. What a pleasant surprise...it is such an honor to be in your magnificent presence once again."

"Quit groveling," the massive mech growled. "I hear you have been busy in my absence."

"Only for the best of the business, my lord." Wings twitched and turned as the silver mech straightened.

"Your guards are becoming rather talkative." The larger mech crossed the room in lengthy strides, optics flicking across the room. "You have not been keeping them in check. Their armor is intact." With a glance over his shoulder panel, the mech's fiery gaze pierced the supposed insubordinate.

The slimmer mech stiffened, wings folding down into a repective position. "Please accept my apologies, master. I only assumed that with your current situation -"

"You assume _nothing_!" The looming mech seemed to grow as his rage increased. "What would deem it beneficial to have sentries that slack at their jobs and question officers of higher authority? With the valuables we currently have in our stockpiles, it is _required_ to have order!"

"Please forgive me, master, I meant no harm!" Large optics widened even more as the mech bowed at the other's feet. "The guards will be dealt with severely, I promise!"

The taller one growled, reaching down to grasp the trembling mech's servo. "What did I say about groveling?" he hissed, baring razor dentia. "I will deal with the guards. Gather everyone for a mandatory meeting. There are things that must be discussed." With a shove that bent the outer casing of the Vocian's wing, he let the mech go, trailing him.

Mere breems later, the meeting room was filled with various mechs and femmes. The silver Vocian stood at the head of the room, in front of the entrance. With a snarling grin that curled thin lip plates, he waved his servos with a flourish and bowed.

"All hail...Lord Whiplash, follower of Megatron's beliefs; our master continues the work the former Lord Megatron failed to accomplish: to restore justice and belief by any means necessary. All hail Lord Whiplash!"

"All hail Whiplash! All hail Whiplash!"

* * *

**Whew! I am SO sorry this took so long. I was getting everything in order with school and stuff...apologies apologies! Sorry for the crappy ending! **

**Can you connect the personification of evil Whiplash with an earlier scene in...oh, let's say Chapter 4? **

**Hope you liked! PM/review with questions/concerns/confusions/comments/suggestions!**

**Note: Otravă means "poison" in Romanian.**

**Bye! **


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10! Undercover Prowl and Jazz! :) Hope you like!**

* * *

"I do not like this idea."

"Ya never like any of mah ideas, Prowler, an' ya don' have ta keep statin' ya obvious dislike."

The Praxian's doorwings flared momentarily at the sudden use of the moniker."Would it not be more logical if we were to just question the bar owner?"

Ignoring the detective's comment, he continued, "It's only one time."

"It is only one time too many," the Praxian murmured. His doorwings were raised.

"Ah would seriously appreciate it ya stopped bein' such a spoilsport."

"I do not share the same interests as you; therefore I will continue being a 'spoilsport', as you put it."

The Polyhexian vented heavily. "Please don' act like this when we get there."

"Your need for dominance in a situation of your planning is repeatedly aggravating, Jazz."

Jazz rolled his optics beneath his visor. "Ya remember ta plan?"

Prowl began to speak, but the Enforcer cut him off. "Forget ah said anythin'; ya obviously do. We should probably put on our disguises now."

"Agreed." Both pressed a button on exposed control panels, and their disguises came into play. Jazz's white paintjob turned a shade of midnight blue, and his visor changed from blue to an eerie shade of crimson red. Prowl's colors turned from black and gold to pitch black, and his white optics turned a shade of burnt amber. His doorwings took on the appearance of Seeker wings, and stretched high from his back.

"Ya should look like tha' more often," the Polyhexian stated. "Gold looks good on ya as an optic color."

The Praxian looked down at the other. "You make a very convincing Decepticon. Are you certain you were not one?"

Jazz laughed. "Ah was never a 'Con, Prowler."

"Prowl."

"Whatever." Jazz waved a dismissive hand. "There's ta place." He motioned to a rather small, rundown building. The smell of strong high-grade wafted through every crevice. They entered, Prowl having to duck and lower his wings to get through the low doorway.

The lighting was dim. Loud, electronic music pounded from speakers near a DJ stand, and bodies on the dance floor, which was separated from the drinking area, swayed and stumbled in time to the music. Rather strong scents of various refuels hit them. Jazz heard a hitch in his companion's vents and saw his wings flare violently, if not briefly, and his engine rumbled in agreement. The smell alone was enough to leave one with an immense processor ache.

Jazz glanced at the detective. "This is ta place, all right. Ya would be able ta tell from a joor away. Let meh handle this; Ah've been in situations like this. Stay behind meh and don' talk." He glared for emphasis.

"Mechs, what can I get fer ya?" A bartender appeared, his large dark orange frame hulking in the dim lights.

Jazz scowled. "Ah don' care fer ya jokes, Mixer." His voice was significantly deeper than normal. "Ya know who Ah am."

Mixer's optics widened at the Polyhexian's voice. "Oh, Th-Thrasher. M-my apologies. The Kaonian grade, correct?" At Jazz's snarl, the bartender moved faster. "Right, right, I'm on it. On it."

The Polyhexian was aware of his partner's blazing amber gaze, one that told him he had explaining to do when they left.

"Might I ask who accompanies you?" the orange mech questioned as he prepared a drink for Jazz.

The Polyhexian vented, his engine growling. "This here is mah partner. Ah wouldn't get on 'is bad side if Ah were ya."

Mixer shrugged. "I really wouldn't want to. He looks dangerous, maybe more so than _you_," the mech murmured. "So what brings you here? This place isn't the best fer one to be in right now; there've been a lot of…incidents."

Jazz leaned against the bar, his visor flashing almost menacingly. "Ah need ta find someone."

Mixer nodded thoughtfully, his engine rumbling. "Vendettas, eh? A lot of the mechs in here have those."

"Ah don' know anyone who doesn't," Jazz replied coldly. "Maybe Darkstorm here, but…" He motioned to the silent mech accompanying him.

Mixer stared at the detective, who stared back coldly, his optics flashing threateningly. "Easy there, fella. I ain't tryin' ta antagonize anyone. You just look like one who would be the King of Vendettas."

Darkstorm growled, narrowing his optics. Thrasher put a servo on his, as if attempting to restrain him as the other's wings rose to a warning height. "Easy there. Ya already have 'nough lives on ya hands."

"Murders?" Mixer questioned, the faintest hint of fear staining his otherwise calm voice as he handed Jazz his drink.

"Why is it any o' ya business?" the Polyhexian snarled, his visor flashing provocatively.

"I happen to know a few cold-sparked killers here, and was only curious on who your friend here had taken," the large orange mech answered calmly. His armor flared slightly, making his colossal frame seem even bigger.

"More than ya can imagine, mech," Thrasher replied, as cryptic as ever. "'E's in trouble with nearly all of the Enforcers. Stayed awhile in the penitentiary, but he was in ta asylum for a long time. He's a bit fragmented in ta processor, if ya know what Ah mean."

Another voice sounded. "Oh, and I am _sure_ that's true."

Both Enforcer and detective turned. A tall mech stood there, his yellow optics burning in the dim light. His massive servos were crossed over his chest, a somewhat feral grin on his faceplate. A slightly smaller femme stood next to him, her wings raised high and twitching and a large grin on her faceplate.

Thrasher hissed, visor blazing. "Who are ya?"

"They call me Slade." The mech bowed slightly, enough for the two to see the scars on his back and wings. "This here is Blacklight." She waved in response, her purple optics flashing with an almost insane light. "We heard you talking. You're looking for someone?"

Thrasher bristled. "Ya need ta learn ta stay outta other's business, mech. Ah ain't lookin' fer any help."

Slade's optics flashed. "On the contrary, dear mech, I believe I am the only one who can assist you, more so than this pathetic excuse for a bartender." He ignored the threatening rumble of Mixer's engine, keeping his steady yellow gaze on the Polyhexian before him.

Thrasher stood, his visor blazing a boiling shade of red. "What part of 'Ah ain't lookin' fer any help' did ya not understand? Ah said no, and _Ah mean no_."

Slade's feral grin returned, his jagged dentia glinting in the dim light. "Oh, come now, little Polyhexian. I'm sure I can persuade you."

Next to him, Thrasher felt Darkstorm tense and glanced over at him. The mech's body was taut, his wings flared in warning while his optics blazed with an almost unnatural light. His mouthplates were pulled back in a scowl, exposing fangs. Were fangs a part of the detective's disguise? He didn't recall seeing them earlier.

_Fangs?_ He sent to the other. _What Decepticon are you tryin' ta be?_

_Not now, Thrasher_. _There are other telepaths in this room_.

"Oh, look," Blacklight crooned. Her voice was raspy and unnaturally deep for a femme. "The Seeker's getting annoyed. Can I have a crack at him?" She looked up expectantly at Slade.

The mech shook his helm. "Blacklight, what did I say about controlling your impulses during professional talks?"

Thrasher snarled. "Ya will see what mah friend's impulses are if ya don' _back_ _off_." His voice lowered even more, filled with menace and fury.

"He doesn't look like much to me," Slade stated smugly, crossing his servos once more, "Just a weak mech with more looks than tanks."

Before he could process what was happening, Slade was pinned to the wall. The Seeker's dentia were bared and his fangs glinted in the dim light. His wings were flared high and wide and his amber optics blazed.

Slade glared at him, internally shocked that the leaner yet taller mech had surprised him so. It was only when the hand surrounding his throat tightened enough to begin crushing his neck that fear crept into his gaze. Based on what Thrasher had said, antagonizing an insane mech that was being hunted by all Enforcers, as well as one who had committed many horrific crimes, was not a good idea. Slade knew that Darkstorm would not hesitate to offline him either.

Blacklight hissed threateningly, making to come to her partner's aid. In a flash, Thrasher had pulled out a blaster, the weapon whirring as he aimed it at her helm. She froze, purple gaze narrow.

"One move," the Polyhexian snarled, "And Ah blow ya helm off."

Darkstorm took in the other's terrified look and grinned sadistically, a low growl rumbling deep within his chassis. The Seeker leaned close, whispering in a deep, chilling voice. "I am more than your puny mind can comprehend. I would watch your tone while you are speaking to my comrade, or...," he trailed off, and the clawed digits around Slade's throat tightened hard enough to draw Energon; "…I will make you suffer in ways you will not believe…I will inflict so much pain that you will wish you had never been created. Are we clear?" When Slade nodded, the Praxian-in-disguise pulled back, dropping the other mech. Blacklight ran over to him, helping him to his pedes. He scowled at them as his optics blazed.

"Who do you think you are?" he demanded, wings flaring wide. Blacklight hissed in agreement, her optics narrow.

"Ah think ya might've heard o' meh before," Thrasher drawled, twirling his blaster through his digits with terrifying ease. "Ta name's Thrasher."

Slade and Blacklight froze, staring. Shock was etched clearly over their faceplates.

"Thrasher is merely a legend," Blacklight hissed. She ran her servo down Slade's arm. "Don't listen to them, sweetspark. They are only trying to get inside your helm."

"Ah would watch that glossa o' yours, little femme," Thrasher continued with unsettling calm. "Ah am not a legend. Darkstorm here, though..." He trailed off, motioning to his companion as an eerie grin appeared on his faceplate. "…He's ta stuff o' legends, although Ah'm not sayin' Ah'm not." The grin widened as his visor darkened. "Although, he's ta stuff of ta _horror_ legends."

"Darkstorm?" Slade stared at the detective. "Darkstorm is dead."

The said mech in question snarled, his wings flaring. "I am very much alive." His deep, terrifying voice seemed to echo in their minds.

_Backlash telepathy?_ Thrasher commented on a private comm. _Nice._

_Focus. We may have a fight on our hands_.

Thrasher could feel the atmosphere of the room tense. Everyone had noticed Darkstorm pin Slade and Thrasher pull out his gun.

"Great," the Polyhexian muttered. "More attention on us."

"All the more reason to give them a show," Darkstorm hissed, his optics blazing as his frame seemed to blend into the dark.

"Where did he go?" Slade demanded, his wings flaring.

Thrasher grinned, visor flashing. "Sorry. Trade secret." He cocked his blaster. "This, however, is well known." He aimed it at Blacklight, who was taken aback. "Ah suggest ya start runnin'."

Slade scowled, his gaze on Thrasher as he addressed his partner. "I believe we have an unfortunate quarrel on our hands, Blacklight." He took a massive sword from a hidden sheath on his back. His yellow optics burned. "You know what to do."

He lunged at the Polyhexian. Thrasher dodged, rearing back and kicking the mech in the abdominal plating. A slight, choked cycle of air escaped him, and Slade snarled, lashing out with his sword and managing to clip Thrasher on the fore-servo. It only seemed to anger the Polyhexian, who sheathed his blaster and ducked beneath the massive mech's legs. Using his smaller size to his advantage, the Polyhexian latched himself onto Slade's back, his claws digging well past his armor and slashing the protoform beneath. Slade hissed, attempting to get the smaller mech off of him and dropping his sword in the process, leaving the weapon forgotten. The fighting only made Thrasher's grip tighten, and he twisted in an impossible, unnatural way as his legs wrapped around Slade's neck, and his claws raked through his wings. Slade cried out, his wings jerking, trying to get free from the Polyhexian's wrathful hold. Thrasher snarled, claws tearing into the other's faceplate as his pedes settled on his wings. He kicked _hard_, knocking the left wing free from its joint. Slade was not aware of Thrasher's amused, menacing, and slightly insane grin as he bucked, still trying to dislodge the Polyhexian.

Nearby, Darkstorm was engaged with Blacklight. Despite his cloaking ability, she was able to sense his presence wherever he went, forcing him to abandon the power. She specialized in the hit-and-run technique, her attacks becoming more brutal and violent each time. He blocked each one, seemingly oblivious to his leaking wounds.

"Come now, my precious Seeker." Blacklight crooned, her optics blazing with barely restrained amusement as the other faltered slightly. "Don't tell me you're getting _tired_."

Darkstorm snarled, his wings flaring. He vanished from view again, and the femme smirked. "You know that trick doesn't work." A whoosh of air passed her, and she whipped around, optics narrow.

A low laugh rumbled through the displaced air. "I know very well that this trick does not affect you." Something rammed into her, making her stumble and snarl as she glared around the room, aware of the inebriated mechs and femmes watching her. Darkstorm's voice came again:

"But who says I am looking to _trick_ you?"

The sound of a gunshot echoed throughout the bar. Roars and shouts of surprise and outrage sounded as Blacklight's servo was blown apart. Darkstorm brought his servo up to shield himself from the flying gore, bits and pieces of half-melted armor and circuitry spraying everywhere. Energon showered the Seeker, and he snarled, rearing back as his glossa ran over his bloodstained fangs.

Nearby, Thrasher grinned eerily, white dentia gleaming, as he shook the carnage from his blaster. Slade stared in shock as his partner collapsed with a audio-splitting shriek, running to catch her and uncaring of the bloody shards piercing his armor. He glared as Thrasher moved silently next to his partner, who growled at the stricken mech kneeling before them.

"You have made a _grave _mistake," Slade growled.

Darkstorm bared his Energon-stained dentia, hissing and making to attack, but Thrasher placed a restraining hand on his partner's servo as he turned to bare his dentia in a sadistic, unsettling grin.

"No, mah friend," the Polyhexian growled, "_Ya've _made a big mistake. Ah wasn't ta one who decided ta attack meh and Darkstorm here. Ah was merely defendin' mahself."

Slade growled. "You were better off handling me." As if agreeing, his broken and dislocated wing twitched. "Your partner could have handled it, but you had to interfere!"

Thrasher was not perturbed by the mech's building anger in the slightest. "Wha' can Ah say? _Casualties happen in ta_ _field_." With another disturbing grin and a warning flare of his visor, he turned. "Come on, Darkstorm. We're done here."

Slade, as well as the entire bar, stared as the two strange mechs disappeared.

* * *

Once they were out of optical and audio range of the bar in the confines of a small alleyway, the Praxian and Polyhexian dropped their disguises. Jazz jumped as Prowl collapsed against the alley wall, venting heavily.

"Prowler! Wha's wrong?"

The Praxian's doorwings flared wide, warning him to stay away. "Do you have...any idea...how _illogical_ that was?"

"Is tha' all tha's botherin' ya? It went better than we thought, at least."

"It became... _worse_ than...expected." Jazz moved forward in concern as the mech's chassis was racked by a violent shudder; the concern only increased as he noticed that the detective seemed to have trouble cycling vents through his frame.

"Detective, it went far better than Ah expected. Why's this messin' wit' ya so much?"

Prowl said nothing, doorwings twitching as he braced himself against the cool metal walls, forcing his ventilations to even. His optics shuttered and his frame stilled as the Polyhexian became worried, as Prowl was even quieter than he normally was.

"Prowl, what are ya doin'?"

The Praxian vented slowly before turning his helm to face the other. His crystal white optics were stained with flecks of cerulean and amber. "I am trying not to crash."

Jazz's mind stuttered to a stop. "Wait...ya mean ta tell meh that now, afta tha war, tha' ya still have ya logic and tactical centres online?" He shook his helm in disbelief. "Mech, so many illogical things happen today -and Ah'll take credit fer some o' 'em- Ah'm surprised ya haven't crashed already."

The detective did not appreciate the joke, his armor rattling as his vents became hoarse and uneven one more. When his leg gave out beneath him as he made to move forward, Jazz was immediately there steadying him. He nearly jerked away at the ice-cold temperature of the Praxian's chassis. No one was meant to be that cold. Unless they were...dead...

"Come on, Prowler," Jazz stated, even more worried when the other did not respond, "Let's get ya home."

Neither noticed the mech watching them from the shadows.

* * *

**There! Hope you liked! PM/review with any questions, suggestions, etc.**

**Bye!**


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